


One Moment in a Sea

by quarterweeb



Category: TBoA (Webcomic)
Genre: Ashwick's a theocracy so it's in there, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Many of them aren't related but they're family, Not quite fluff but not totally depressing either, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 02:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20593154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quarterweeb/pseuds/quarterweeb
Summary: We all celebrate the passing of a year in different ways.-A birthday piece for Hyannah, the creator of TBoA! Love you, Heather. <3





	One Moment in a Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I made this a while ago, but I'm posting it now! Gotta have content for my budding Tumblr blog. The grind never stops. For those who are wondering, Hyannah's birthday is August 1st :3

I.

“Follow me.”

“We’ve never been to this part of the house before,” the boy notes. His fine blond hair is starting to darken into a sort of silverish-blue. Ghasper wonders if it will shift to the color of his own fur when the boy reaches maturity. The thought gives him an odd feeling: pride and possessiveness fused tightly and shoved into his dead chest.

“Well-spotted,” the hound nods, padding silently across the floor. Wolfe’s footsteps are slight, but the old house still groans under his weight. “Stay close behind: this manor has a habit of eating those who don’t know their way.”

It’s not true, of course—stories are stories are stories, and the house isn’t _ that _ big—but he’s small and impressionable, and it wouldn’t be hard for him to fall through a rotting floorboard. Better to scare him into obedience.

Ghasper hasn’t been bonded to Wolfe long, but he knows the boy is intelligent. Inquisitive. Honestly, his talents were being wasted before, stuck as an orphan in a shrine to an imaginary god. While his conditions now are inarguably harder than they were in Wolfe’s early childhood, at least now Wolfe has someone around who recognizes just how much potential he has.

Wolfe timidly grabs hold of his demon’s tail, as if afraid of being told off. On a different day, perhaps Ghasper would: baring his teeth, he’d back Wolfe into a corner, swipe at his fair skin with sharp, cruel claws and an even sharper, crueler tongue.

But not today. Today, Ghasper hums quietly at the contact, and leads him on through the manor in silence.

The hallways twist and turn, and Ghasper can feel the way Wolfe’s attention wavers as he observes his surroundings. Probably trying to memorise the route. Clever, clever boy.

The walk, though admittedly confusing, is short, and they arrive at a plain door with mold gnawing at its wooden corners. Wolfe still stands behind Ghasper, looking on the door with a great deal of trepidation.

“Go on,” Ghasper prompts him. “Open it.”

Cautiously, Wolfe walks to the door and lays his hand on the doorknob. There’s a trace of fear in his movements, like he’s scared of something jumping out at him. Ghasper’s trained him well.

The door squeals pitifully, and Wolfe trembles but refuses to jump backwards. He’s braver than he looks, stronger than he looks—it’s what’s made him such a good host, even at his age.

What’s inside the room, though, is far from terror-inducing or life-threatening. Musty shelves line the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling, and hundreds upon hundreds of old books stand silently, some of the only remnants of life before the dog and his son. What little of the bright moonlight has filtered through the clouds streams into the grimy windows. Outside, the lazy pattering of rain has just started to sound.

“Wow!” Wolfe steps into the room, looking around with a wide-eyed wonder only children have. “I’ve never seen this many books before!”

“And they’re all yours now.”

“Really!?” His elated expression quickly fades. “But I don’t know how to read yet...”

“Then someone will have to teach you.”

Wolfe crosses his arms, pouting. He doesn’t often—it’s either outright crying or nothing with him—but the petulant gesture reminds Ghasper just how young Wolfe is. “Where are we gonna find someone who knows how to read out _here_?”

_We_, Ghasper thinks.

They stare at each other for a moment, before the pieces click into place. “_You’re_ gonna teach me how to read?”

“I’m going to _attempt_ to teach you how to read,” Ghasper says, trying to keep Wolfe’s contagious joy out of his voice, “so you’ll have to pay very close attention to me, and—”

“Can we start now? I wanna piiiick...this one!” Wolfe stands on his tiptoes and just barely manages to reach the fifth shelf. His book of choice is slim, with a cover so yellowed and damaged that the title is unreadable.

Ghasper sighs, but lays on the floor of the old library, and Wolfe curls himself against the great Malignant’s side, knees tucked into his body. After some fumbling, he separates the sticky pages and opens to the beginning of the book.

“Start here,” he orders, tapping the first paragraph.

“As you wish,” Ghasper bows his head, “but promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. This is a lesson, Wolfe; you need to listen carefully.”

“I promise,” Wolfe nods gravely, pressing himself closer to Ghasper, and the hound begins.

“Once upon a time there was a dear little girl who was loved by everyone who looked at her, but most of all by her grandmother, and there was nothing that she would not have given to the child. 

“Once she gave her a little riding hood of red velvet, which suited her so well that she would never wear anything else; so she was always called 'Little Red Riding Hood.'...”

* * *

II.

A sharp rapping wakes Rose from her fitful, dream-ridden slumber. Since she’s arrived in Ashwick, every night it’s been the same nightmare: the Spectres surround her, mouthless sentinels trapping her in the deepest parts of the Charnels. Something in their strange, inhuman eyes always leaves her with a sense of unease.

“Who is it?” she calls to the offender, though she doesn’t expect a response. She’s been the victim of tricks like these before: just another townsperson tormenting a heretical occultist.

“Dr. Martin McGregor,” a Scottish voice replies cordially, then, with a note of amusement, “This is the traveling caravan of one Miss Rose Barton, correct?”

“Yes, yes,” Rose responds, and promptly rolls over.

A blessed few minutes pass, and Rose is almost back to sleep, when the voice calls again.

“May I come in?” it asks, and yes, it would be a good idea to allow Martin inside.

Rose yawns. “Just a moment!”

With some amount of difficulty, the girl rolls out of bed and makes herself look halfway presentable. She throws open the door to a brisk October wind and the warm smile of Ashwick’s most talented doctor.

“Martin?” Rose says, rubbing her eyes, even though she’s perfectly aware it’s him. _ Keenly _ aware it’s him. It’s far too early in the morning (afternoon?) for someone as bright as Martin to be visiting her.

“Hello, Rose,” he chirps, in his soft lilt of an accent. “I was told today was your birthday?”

“By who?,” she asks confusedly, moving aside to allow him through. Nobody in this town cares about Rose enough to give her the time of day, let alone remember her birthdate. That is, except for—

“Hunter, of course.” Martin steps into the small caravan easily, given his height, and finds a clear place on the bench to sit. “He would’ve joined me but, well, you know how the church is.” He waves his hand dismissively, as if Rose is supposed to nod and say, _“Oh, yes, of course,” _when in actuality she would very much like to know how the church is.

Rose doesn’t tug on the loose thread, though—another time, perhaps—and instead says, “You didn’t have to visit me.” _In fact_ , she thinks, _I would’ve preferred you didn’t, so I could have stayed in bed longer, but oh well_.

“I might not have, if I didn’t have something to give you. It’s easy to see how little sleep you get,” Martin replies, reading her thoughts. “But I wanted to give you your gift before I continued working.”

Martin produces a knitted scarf and presents it to Rose. It’s thick, deep royal blue, and the loops are large enough to fit Rose’s dainty fingers. She digs them into the yarn, presses it into her face. It smells fresh: the scent of wool and a faint, sweet flower whose name Rose can’t recall this soon after waking. It reminds her of the mittens she and her Nanna used to make together.

She’s touched. “You didn’t have to make this for me.”

“Oh, _I_ didn’t! I have absolutely _no_ idea how to knit.” Martin takes off his glasses and rubs at the lenses with a handkerchief. “I stole it from Hunter.”

“What!?”

Martin laughs, a sound that heals just as well as any medicine, and replaces his glasses. “Don’t worry. His lady, Mallory: she likes to knit things, and Hunter gives out her projects like they’re cursed. Says they’re taking up too much space in the house.”

The look on Rose’s face clearly says that this information hasn’t eased her worries in the slightest.

He laughs again, harder, and stands. “Don’t look so nervous, hen. There’s no spirit in the scarf.”

_Oleander_, Rose thinks, _that’s what it smells like._

“Get some rest, Rose,” Martin adds, as he opens the door and the cold rushes in again. “Sooner or later, you’re going to need it.”

Rose vocalizes her assent, and her frozen stare remains on the scarf long after the chill in the caravan has faded. Made with the hands of a giant holy man on the strings of a demonic snake woman. Given to Rose herself by a drunkard of a doctor for her birthday, on the outskirts of a town ravaged by a ghost plague. The thought is almost humorous.

No, it _is_ humorous, and Rose finds herself giggling into the garment at the ridiculousness of her situation. All of her emotion bubbles out of her in hiccups until her sides begin to ache, until she finally manages to wipe her eyes and get over the peculiarity of what is now her daily life.

“This is what I’ve decided to do,” Rose nods, pushing down the last of her amusement to make way for resolve, “I’m going to save this strange town and all of its oddities, I swear it.”

The scarf remains in Rose’s caravan, safe, but the warmth it holds stays with Rose for the rest of the day.

* * *

III.

Hunter sits alone in a wooden pew, a year older but none the wiser for it. The weight of his choices hangs from him now, as it often does around this time of year. Hunter has never seen his birthday as a day of celebration, even as a young boy; his childhood was not filled with extravagant parties or gifts, and the joyful feelings many others get from the safe passage through another year are so muted they may as well not be there at all. A birthday is a occasion to reflect.

But reflection has always been dangerous for a man of action like Hunter. He is just as aware as anyone of the things that he’s done, but the gravity of his actions never resonate with him like they do on this day.

What is he doing with his life? Toiling away blindly as a pawn of the church? Hunter told himself he was a good man, and some days he even believed it, but he had committed..._revolting_ acts. Unspeakable. Un_forgivable_. The stain of blood on his calloused palms would remain with him until his death. He often wonders if Saint Peter would give him a look of pity before condemning him to the eternal fires of hell, but he doubts he would get even this small show of sympathy.

This was not the life he’d wanted, but he’d been living an unwanted life for as long as he could remember. 

_You’re quite the masssochist,_ Mallory laughs in her serpentine slur. _Never have I seen a man so sssenselessly determined to hate himself._

His narrow eyes glance up, and, sure enough, the emerald snake has materialized in the space next to him, scales shimmering in the cathedral’s stale air. Despite her frankly intimidating size, she hovers just above the floor, coiled on herself. He refuses to acknowledge her past that.

She floats to lounge on his shoulders, and the rest of her body wraps easily around Hunter’s torso. As an apparition, the sly, cold Malignant has an almost soft texture, and her weight is negligible. Hunter would push her away, but he doesn’t have the energy or the conviction, and she continues smoothly.

_You are resourceful, and ruthless._ Mallory's magenta eyes pierce his own as she cocks her head. _Thessse are useful traits to possess, Hunter. Truly good men do not last long in a town as polluted as Ashwick. If you wish to keep living unbothered, you should not assspire to be counted among their number._

“Good men are the only thing keeping this town from turning into a hellscape,” he mutters, and grits his teeth.

_Oh, Hunter. _He can feel ghostly muscles contract as Mallory’s body slides around him. She nudges her flat head under his hand and lays on his thigh. Her tail curls around his other wrist as he pets her absently. _Ashwick is a little piece of hell already. _She exposes her dripping needlepoint fangs in a crude approximation of an open-mouthed smirk.

_You and I know that better than anyone elssse, don't we? _

Her slim, forked tongue darts out of her cave of a mouth, and in a blink her body is breaking apart, her scales separating and dissolving into nothing across Hunter's skin. His confusion doesn’t last long, as Mallory’s voice sounds from inside his head.

_She’sss here_, Mallory hisses. She has quite the keen sense of smell: it’s made Hunter an expert at tracking people down. _Interrupting, as usual. At leassst she’ll pull you out of your pathetic pity party._

Just after she speaks, he hears the creak of the heavy cathedral door open and the click of footsteps on the stone floor. “Hunter, darling, what are you doing here?”

He doesn’t know, to be completely honest, but he says, “Just thinking, love. Did I worry you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Gloria jokes, setting a hand on her husband’s arm. Even sitting,B he’s a little taller than her. “Martin was the one worried, I knew you were fine.” She taps her temple. “Wife’s intuition.”

“Have you been waiting long?” he asks, knowing full well they have to have been waiting for at least half an hour.

“No, not long,” she says, “but if I don’t come back with you in the next few minutes, I guarantee Martin will throw some sort of fit.”

She gazes at him, affection and melancholy clear on her face. “Come on, darling. I'm no doctor, but I know how dangerous is it to be let alone with your thoughts.”

God bless his wife. Words fail him now, as they so often do, when he tries to tell her how much he loves her and how grateful he is for the intuitive understanding between them.

“Thank you, love,” he settles on, because he'll have a lifetime to figure out the right thing to say.

Gloria smiles like she understands anyways, and pulls on Hunter’s arm to get him up. 

She holds his hand all the way back.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated, and (as always) I hope you enjoyed the story! I have so much TBoA content that I have to post to my new Tumblr blog >w< we'll see how that goes. If you're interested in these characters or in this piece, feel free to talk to me here or at ashwickconfidential on Tumblr!


End file.
